Take Care Sammy
by Mikiya2200
Summary: Sam needs his brother and he would do anything to get him back. -- Set between seasons 3 and 4.


**A/N:** I have no idea where this came from but while working on it I realized this was one of those stories that won't leave you alone until you finish it. Maybe I should put a tissue-alert out on this one.

A big hug to my beta-reader **AnickaMarie **who got rid of all the "somes" out there.

Spoiler-warning for everything up to _"No rest for the wicked"._

The ritual mentioned has been taken from _"John Winchester's Journal"_ so I really did my homework on that one.

Neither the journal nor the boys belong to me (thank God), I will give the one of them I used back as soon as he stops shivering.

**Summary**: Sam needs his brother and he would do _anything _to get him back. -- Set between seasons 3 and 4.

***** **** *** ** *

Take Care Sammy  
by Mikiya

* ** *** **** *****

He isn't drunk.

_No Sir, not drunk at all. _

He isn't drunk because he knows how dangerous it is to do this, even without him getting the words all slurred. "This" being what he is about to do. For which he needs to be alert and on his guard and completely in control of himself. And alcohol tends to numb things. So, _of course,_ he isn't drunk.

He sways a little on his feet as he steps over the first hidden trap and has to reach out for a shelf to keep upright, frowning disapprovingly at his treacherous sense of eliqui—elibriqu— _balance_.

Okay, so maybe he isn't exactly sober either. Hasn't been for a long time actually, not since—

Doesn't matter, not now. It will have to be enough, as long as he can still see the words on the page, can still grasp their meaning and keep in mind when the intonation has to rise and when not he should be fine.

He's _so_ gonna do this. Tonight. Cause there won't be another night for like 30 or 40 years like this, when the moon and the stars and some other stuff he has already forgotten about will be in perfect alignment to do it. He can't wait for 30 or 40 years, he really can't, so it's now or never.

Doesn't matter that he isn't looking forward to it, that it isn't his worst nightmare come alive…

Uhm, no, that's not entirely true, his _worst_ nightmare has already happened, right in front of his eyes. And he had been powerless to stop it and now it is chasing him, replaying before his mind's eye every damned waking minute of the day. If he closes his eyes against it all he can hear are the _screams_ and if he fights to keep them open there's just blood everywhere. It's always blood and he can't wash it off. He's pretty sure he's heard of something like that before, some distant memory that dances out of reach each time he tries to get a hold of it. But then the night comes again and the cries are back and it's never quiet and he doesn't really care anymore.

The alcohol helps. A little. Keeps his mind off— _stuff_ when he's not hunting… He stumbles over that word and chuckles drily to himself. What he's doing is not hunting, not anymore; he doesn't kill the things he meets, not if there's the slightest chance that they could know something about something. He talks when he should be shooting, or salting and burning, pleads when there is no answer and doesn't go after them when they get away. It's wrong and he knows it, it goes against their family business, but he doesn't care, he figured he's finally owed himself a break from that damned routine.

He almost forgets about the second trap and misses the thin cord only because he sways again and all but topples against a shelf. It swings dangerously under his weight and the various boxes and fetishes rattle against each other ominously. He reaches out to steady himself and the wooden construction, allows a relieved sigh to pass his lips when everything falls silent again.

The room is dark; the only source of light is the moon as it shines through the small window at the far end, casting some kind of surreal, faint glow over the scenery. Shadows rise when he's not looking, looming just outside of his not-blurry line of sight. But he doesn't mind them, doesn't mind their silent company especially since he is pretty sure the moving is only in his imagination.

He made sure he hasn't been followed to this place; he isn't John Winchester's son for nothing: hex-bags and an obscure cloaking ritual that have left the interior of the Impala reeking of things he really, _really_ doesn't want to think about right now. That and the fake trail he made up two days ago should make pretty damn sure he isn't going to be disturbed for at least two nights. Or so he hopes, he's paid quite a bit of money for the ingredients of the spell but he figures it is worth it, he needs the time.

He had been about 12 years old when he saw his first séance; they had needed information about a case where humans were disappearing in a graveyard and asking the spirits of the deceased had seemed to be the best way to get it. Dean had done the ritual then and he remembers how his father had had his brother's back while he had been hiding in the Impala under the order _to stay inside_ and _not come out no matter what_. He hadn't understood then why his brother and their father had been so anxious about what could happen since all that _did_ eventually show up was the blurry shape of a man who had whispered something he hadn't been able to make out and had then simply disappeared.

The second time he had been on his own, literally, and had almost wept with relief when he had finally heard from his brother. Of course, that relief had quickly turned into horror when he had learned that a reaper had been after Dean and the realization that there was no way to save him had truly hit home. That instance was topped only by the moment when he had found the hospital bed empty and his father nowhere in sight.

The third time he had really, really _not_ wanted to do it. The incantation had rolled effortlessly from his lips but at the same time he had prayed so hard that Dean was wrong about Father Gregory, that he was not just an angry spirit disguised as an angel. He had wanted so badly to believe that there was someone watching out for him but, of course, Dean had been right and his world had been shattered. Again.

The last time he hadn't really believed anything would happen at all, they'd completely made the ritual up, improvising like hell. He had been more than a little surprised to look up and find the two dead brothers fighting each other. And even though Bella had repaid them for their "trust" later by stealing the damned Colt he'd always been relieved to have put another restless spirit to rest.

This time it is like a mix of all the other times, he is alone—in the saddest sense of the word—he really doesn't want to do it and he kind of hopes nothing will happen, he doesn't really want to see him, much less actually talk to him. Too much has happened, too many things had been said and done for them to just have a chat and forget about the past. The truth is, he would not be doing this at all if he actually had anything left, any other lead he could look into. But, being the sad king of research that he is he has finally done it and surpassed himself, he knows everything about crossroad demons there is to know, about deals and how many people were actually smart enough to get out of them. He has reached the end of his possibilities; he has nothing left to try but _this_.

And he _is_ going to do this, even though every instinct he's ever had is screaming at him to run away in the other direction.

Ah well, screw his instincts, haven't been the best lately anyway, if he is really honest with himself. Which he always is.

Well, mostly.

He turns around, almost knocking a small box off the shelf.

_Dad'll know what to do._

For one fleeting moment he allows himself the luxury of childish trust in the man, shoves aside everything, every negative feeling he couldn't let go of when his father had still been alive, the disappointment, anger, resentment he had felt for him. He loses himself in childhood memories of a time when his Dad had been his hero, the only man alive who could do anything and knew everything, who could never be wrong. He had trusted that man blindly for most of his life, no matter how often they had clashed, how often they had disagreed about things; in the end his father had always been right about the important things. Despite what his father or his brother might have thought he had always trusted his father's instincts when it had come down to the hunt, his knowledge of the supernatural. He might have disagreed with the way his dad had handled private things but he'd never doubted his judgment on hunts.

And that is exactly what he is counting on now, that his father could know something about it, could give him a clue as to what he is supposed to do to help him, to _get his brother back_, end the nightmare he cannot seem to wake up from.

Thinking about his father makes him remember the journal inside his jacket and he pulls it out, flipping the pages until he gets to where an old bill serves as a bookmark. He doesn't think he's really going to need the book but with the way he is not completely sober right now it surely won't hurt to play it safe.

He studies the pages, the familiar scrawl he has been trying to decipher all his life. Without his consent his scrambled thoughts flash back to one of countless nights from his childhood where he had awoken to find his father hunched over this book, writing in it. He still sees that look of concentration, the tense yet controlled air of restlessness that had always dominated their lives for as long as he can remember. Sometimes his father would mutter under his breath, talking to himself as he played out different scenarios in his head. He knows where he picked up _that_ habit…

He finds himself smiling wistfully at the memory and then wonders if his father, when writing the entry he is reading now, had ever thought it possible those words would some day be used to conjure their writer.

"_On a clean altar cloth, place a small bowl filled with fresh herbs."_

So, altar cloth - check. Not a Spongebob-cloth this time, but it will do. The herbs had been expensive, to say the least, but that's okay, he has them all in his backpack plus a few really rare ones to boost things up a little. So yes, he has that one covered. The bowl is in his backpack, along with the black and white candles, frankincense, sandalwood and the cinnamon powder, although the ritual says to use only one of them. But him and his dad never seemed to agree on just about anything and so, just to be sure…

And no, he is not getting nervous about this.

He sets the backpack onto the floor and kneels down, going through the contents and placing them on the floor. The cloth goes first, the bowl set upon it and soon after the rich scent of the various herbs competes with the stale smell of the storage unit. He busies himself with the task of arranging the candles around the bowl, alternating black and white just like the ritual states. With any other séance he would have chosen a small number of candles, like twelve or something, but with this special case he lines up 52 candles to make the ritual as personal as he can.

He has only four or five candles left to light when he realizes that he had never wished him a happy 50th birthday. It's probably the alcohol that is making him feel melancholic and he doesn't even really _want_ to think about it, but now that his brain is on a roll he can't stop it; he does the math and realizes that he had been at Stanford trying for 'normal' when his father turned half a century. Last time he checked it is considered _normal_ to give your old man a call on that special day, so yes, he fucked that one up, too. Story of his life…

He stares at the candles for a long time, lost in the _what ifs_ of his past until his eyes start to burn suspiciously and he wipes angrily at them, no time for that now. He clears his throat, fighting to get his emotions under his control and then lights the remaining candles. The heat of so many flames slowly creeps over his chilled skin and he enjoys the warmth, spends another minute just watching them, working up the courage to do this.

No turning back.

His fingers don't shake – much – as he places the open book next to him and he can almost convince himself that his voice is steady and firm as he starts reciting the incantation.

"Amate spiritus obscure." _Beloved hidden spirit.  
_"Te quaerimus." _We seek you._  
"Te oramus." _We beg you.  
_"Nobiscum colloquere." _Come speak with us._  
"Apud nos circita." _J_o_in our circle_.

And just like his father's text advises he pinches some sandalwood over one of the candle flames and jerks back reflexively when it flares brightly. He closes his eyes for a moment, listening into the darkness.

A dog is barking in the distance.

He shifts slightly and leans back against the wall.

The smell of sandalwood gradually lessens, mixes with the other herbs, fades away.

The dog doesn't stop.

He shivers, it really is _cold_ in here.

After what he thinks is long enough he slowly opens his eyes and glances around.

Nothing has changed.

_Dammit…_

"Oh, come _on_, Dad…" He growls under his breath and sighs in frustration, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Oh, he is _so_ going to sit this one out—

One of the flames suddenly flickers brightly, then goes out. He stares at it reproachfully and reaches for his lighter.

Another flame dies.

Huh.

He stops moving and watches the flames then.

When the third flame disappears he sees the pattern; only black candles have stopped burning, the white ones on their left and right sides continue to dance lazily in the soft draft.

The fourth flame flickers, dies, then the next and the next.

"Dad?"

One by one the black candles give out and as the light grows fainter the shadows behind the ring of candles start moving again. He eyes the candles nervously and holds his breath when only one is left—

A sharp movement to his right and his head snaps around. For one short instant there is a shadow kneeling next to him, bent over the candles, but it flickers and is gone before he can make out any detail. He is on his feet before he realizes it and looks around the room, scanning the darkness intently.

"Dad, you here?"

Although he is fighting it he hears his voice break a little and holds his breath as he listens into the quiet darkness. Something falls from a shelf behind him and he whirls around in time to see another "thing" fall off the board.

"What are you doing?" He is already on his feet and slowly inching closer to the shelf by the time the third clay pot is sent flying across the room. By now he is wondering if this is really his father's spirit or if he has attracted a poltergeist. Which would be all kinds of awkward and so not what he needs right now.

Something on the shelf starts moving, is being dragged across the board to the side where he is. Whatever it is it's covered with a dusty cloth and he stares at it for a second, then slowly reaches out, lifting the cloth.

And gapes.

"You can't be serious…"

The Ouija board is pushed toward him with so much force he reflexively reaches out to catch it.

"Yeah, okay, I get it, stop pushing…" he growls irritably and takes the board back to where the candles are still burning. He sits down and places the board on the floor, eyeing it for a moment. It looks old, like _really_ old, not at all like the new age plastic crap he had found back then to contact Dean. It's made of wood and the letters are burnt into it. It is well used and several deep scratches across the surface speak of many encounters of whatever kind. A Latin inscription on the side warns the user about honouring the departed or face their wrath if they are not treated with the proper respect.

He carefully puts down the planchette on the wood and that's when it hits him without warning; if he has done this right, if this is really his father… his _father_—

He can't help it; he pulls back from the board instinctively and huddles against the wall behind him, staring at the board with wide eyes. Thoughts, snippets, memories flash through his head, too fast, too brief, too painful to look at, they push through the haze of his thoughts and he gasps, tries to pull air into his lungs.

"Oh God…"

His voice is weak, shaky, he barely gets the words out. No, he can't do this, not now, if he—they should—he has to—

He feels fifteen again. No, scratch that and make it _five_, he feels so lost and scared that he can barely think, there are so many things his father doesn't know, so much has happened, has changed, fallen apart in front of his eyes and he hasn't been able to do anything about it…

The pointer starts moving.

"Dad?"

It comes out too shaky, as if he is scared, unsure, which he is not.

Right?

The pointer moves across the wood and it squeaks slightly, the only sound between his slightly hitched breathing, the soft flicker of the candlelight and that stupid dog which won't stop barking. He watches the small wood piece scrape across the board and it feels wrong, so _wrong_, because he's not touching it and it isn't supposed to work this way. He is not touching at all and yet the pointer continues to move toward the middle of the board.

S

It stops there for a brief moment, moves again.

O

Another brief stop, then:

N

'SON'

It stays beneath that letter and all he can do is stare. He doesn't dare move, afraid that once he does the spirit, _Dad?_, could disappear, go back to wherever it came from. He doesn't move, stays pressed against the wall, shaking, eyes burning so bad his sight turns blurry.

"Dad? Is that you?"

He doesn't even recognize his own voice but he must have said it loud enough to be heard because the planchette is moving again, slowly, toward the top left corner until it comes to rest where a word has been burnt into the wood.

'YES'

Oh God.

For a second he can't breathe, can't think, doesn't understand anything but that _he_ is here with him, has come back, has, for once in their lives, heard him call out and chosen to answer. He starts shaking and doesn't even know why.

What is he supposed to do now?

What should he say?

He doesn't really have a plan; he just opens his mouth and says the first thing that comes to his mind.

"How are you?"

The question is so utterly out of place he doesn't even feel stupid asking it.

He jumps slightly when the pointer starts moving again.

'DEAD'

He just stares at the board, dumbfounded, but then a weak chuckle forces itself out of his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut, ignoring the tear that creeps out of the corner of one of them.

"Oh God, Dad, I miss you…" he whispers into the darkness and tries to picture his father, the small smile that had been playing at the corner of his old man's lips when he had told him about the savings account that had turned into ammo. The soft scratch of wood on wood has him open his eyes in time to see the next letters.

'I KNOW'

He stares at the pointer and fights the tears he can still feel burning in his eyes, trying hard not to let them slip past his defences.

He isn't very successful.

He doesn't want to, he really doesn't need a nervous breakdown right now, not with this heavy-magic-séance ritual he has going or the unknown amount of time his father can stay, he needs to focus on the here and now, ask the questions he has prepared, get the information he needs.

It would actually help _a lot_ if he could get his mind off this terrible feeling of loneliness that is tearing a giant hole into his soul with every second that passes. Try as he might he just can't find his voice, looks helplessly at the board and crosses his arms in front of his chest, curling in on himself as he fights for control.

"Dad, we need to talk…"

A soft scratching and the small piece of wood hovers beneath the word 'YES' again.

He gives himself another minute to think, runs a shaky hand across his wet face. How is he supposed to do this? His father is going to be pissed if he learns what Sam wants to talk about. Not only because he will have to tell him that Dean died and is enduring—

His mind blanks out for a second and he gasps, digging his hands into his chest to press against the by now familiar hurt threatening to cut off his air. God, he can't do this, he can't talk about this, can't tell him that Dean threw his life away for him. He doesn't remember how to speak all of a sudden, can't form the words, can't say them, can't get them out.

"Dad… it… it's Dean…"

He falters, stares at his arms, fights not to see the disappointed look on his father's face in his mind. How do you tell your own father you basically killed your brother whom John had given his life for to protect?

"Dad, I screwed up… real bad… I got myself killed and—and Dean… he got me ba-back, he—he made a d-deal, like you…" He swallows and wishes he would just die before he has to finish the sentence, prays for the dark hole in his chest to swallow him completely so he does not have to say it. But after several painful heartbeats he is still there and he squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the words through his tight throat.

"He went to Hell to save me, Dad… he died—I got him killed, I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, Dad…" What's left of his voice breaks completely and he breaks off, has no strength left to go on. He eyes the board with a growing sense of apprehension, stares at it hard, willing it to move. He slumps further against the wall and imagines the shock on his father's face.

Nothing moves.

No answer, no reaction, nothing.

In all the scenarios he had envisioned while he had planned this séance, silence had never been a reaction he had foreseen. He could have dealt with reproach, though he would have preferred anger. Because his father being angry at him is so familiar, so _normal_ he would have known how to deal with it.

He had not expected him to go all quiet on him.

But it figures, maybe he is just too pissed to be answering at all.

Or maybe he has already left.

His thoughts wander off and he cannot stop them, can almost see how they turn away from this awfully painful reality and just disappear in the darkness behind that ring of fire, trying to become one with the shadows.

The flames start to flicker, drawing his empty gaze and he watches, detached, how the last black candle finally dies.

'ENOUGH'

For a second he feels like he has been punched in the gut, stops thinking, breathing, _existing_. His father's voice whispers in his head: _Keep your emotions in check, concentrate on the case. Suck it up and move on, get the job done._

Familiar feelings start to churn deep in his gut, a growl he would have given, an eye roll at how he just can't understand how Dad can be so cold about that, about Dean's sacrifice, his _death_.

_Your son is dying and you're worrying about the Colt?_

He takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself, put aside the hurt at how detached his father seems even at this devastating news. What is wrong with that man, how can he be so cold about this, how can he just not care about it? The man is apparently never going to change, not even his own death seems to have made a difference in how he treats his sons.

It hurts more than he wants to admit and if he was sure he was still capable of moving he would probably just have got up and left.

"Dad…"

He almost chokes on the word and breaks off, has no strength left to fight a battle he already lost years ago. He suddenly remembers that this is not why he is doing this ritual, it's not about him and their father having a fight about priorities, he has wasted enough air at Dean's deathbed once, criticising him about his poor parental instincts and he is not wasting precious time on that again. This is about Dean and how he is going to get him back.

He clears his throat, sits up straighter and keeps his eyes on the board. He isn't crying anymore.

Not much anyway.

Facts, he needs to give his father facts to work with and that he can do.

"I—uhm… I've tried everything I could think of, rituals and—and old—really old texts… I shot the—_a_ cross road demon with the Colt and it—uhm, it wasn't good, it didn't do anything—it was just dead and he still died—"

_- hellhound -_not_Ruby - blinding white light – Lilith – he's so still – dead -_

"Oh God…"

A miserable whimper escapes his lips and a strange pressure on his eyeballs turns out to be his own hands pressing against them, trying to squeeze those awful memories out of his mind. His brother had been still, so fucking still and so cold, lifeless, bloody, body torn open—please, _please_ just STOP—

A strange sound reaches his ear and it takes him too long to realize it's his own voice, sobs he cannot stop, cannot hold back, it just hurts too much to keep them inside. The pointer is moving slightly but doesn't shift over to specific letters, doesn't form words. He recognizes that, if his father was corporeal he would be drumming his fingers impatiently on any surface available.

"Dad, uhm… why you're here… I c-called—_summoned_ you because…" His voice gives out and he closes his mouth, then his eyes, once again fighting so hard to keep his composure.

"I need your help."

_Once, only this once: Please help me, Dad, please._ _Be there for me…_

He blinks his eyes open and stares at the pointer, hard, willing it to move, concentrates so hard to make it move across the board, make his father listen to him, help _Dean, _because he just _has_ to. Because it's Dean, John's _son_ and Sam's brother.

_Dad'll know what to do. _

The one constant of his childhood, the one thing he could always count on…

His attention is focused so intently on the board that he jumps back when finally there is movement and the wood crawls over the scratchy surface, forming words—

'NOTHING YOU CAN DO'

_What?_

No… nonononono, this can't be, he can't be serious, this isn't right, this isn't what he is supposed to say, there has to be something he can try, some-fucking-thing and he doesn't care what, doesn't care what he has to do, give or sacrifice, he will do it in a heartbeat, anything…

"That's impossible…"

He wishes he could move, could jump up, kick the damn board against the wall, maybe even try to hit his father for all the good that would do. This isn't how it is supposed to go, he is supposed to save him, right? Dad is supposed to make it better and get Dean back. Right? He did that before, he can do it again and— This is _not_ right!

"Dad, please…"

He barely gets the words out, cannot get anything past the lump in his throat. He doesn't care that tears are falling from his eyes now, freely, that he can't stop them and that he's babbling like an idiot and can't for the life of him shut up. "I can't do this alone, Dad, I can't, I can't go on like this without him, I know where he is, what they are doing to him—_because of me_… I just can't, it's killing me…"

And it is, the drinking, the sloppy hunting, turning his back on supernatural creatures and letting them get away, the _not caring_ about it anymore is bound to get him killed one day. And, knowing his luck, it will be not too far in the future. He realizes he is leaning closer to the wooden board, swaying as he reaches out to steady himself. "I can't do this anymore, Dad, I just can't…"

'I M SORRY'

He stares at the pointer numbly and thinks about it, tries to wrap his weary mind around, wants to come up with anything but _'I can't do this alone, no more please' _but there is just nothing left there, he is hollow, empty, nothing left but this freaking hole where his heart used to be.

And he is so fucking tired of all this—

"I don't know what to do…" he whispers brokenly, running a tired hand across his burning eyes. He wants to be strong, pull himself together, but he thinks that he finally gets it, there is no one left to pull himself together for, to be strong for. It is over; he has literally nowhere left to go.

That's when his body gives up, just like that. He dimly feels how he crumbles into himself, slouching back against the wall behind him. Time comes to a complete stop for him and he is grateful for it. Maybe he can stay here, hidden from reality, the truth.

He feels so lost, tired.

Gone already, just like the rest of his family.

The candles flicker, start dancing erratically in the draft, drawing part of his attention. His tired eyes track their movements lazily and he watches them through a daze, though it doesn't really register what he is seeing. His mind is too far away, too occupied with keeping his body alive, making sure it keeps on ticking when the rest of him just wants to shut down.

Sleep. He needs to sleep. For a week at least. Maybe then he can come up with a reason to go on, not to pull a gun on himself.

He doubts it.

It is getting darker, he doesn't know why, just watches how the flames flicker and die, just like before, one by one, as if they, too, have lost any will to keep going, to keep the dark away. He can relate.

The hair at the back of his neck prickles, but that, too, doesn't really register, nor does the new smell that suddenly fills the room stir any memories or get a reaction from him.

All he can feel is cold, so cold…

Huh.

That _is_ kind of funny, he can actually see his breath fogging the air in front of his face—

He is not prepared to meet his father's eyes when he looks up.

His body wants to react, wants to flinch back, gasp in surprise, and do _anything_ but sit there, unmoving. But he is frozen, not even when a familiar voice drifts through the darkness, filling the silence around him.

"Sam."

He blinks slowly but the image doesn't change, his father is still kneeling in front of him and for one wonderful moment he looks just as solid and real, _alive_, as he used to. He is wearing the same clothes as the day John had clawed his way back out of Hell at the Devil's Gate a lifetime ago and he doesn't even have to concentrate to make out a smile that is directed at him.

Even when the image of his father flickers softly like so many spirits before him he cannot take his eyes off the warm gaze, before he can stop himself he is smiling back, doesn't want to ruin the moment. A weight settles on his left shoulder and his eyes come to rest on his father's hand which squeezes his arm softly.

"I am sorry you have to go through this."

"Dad…"

He can actually see the word leaving his mouth and drift into the cold air in front of him, feels himself start to tremble even more but he isn't sure if it is the cold or emotional stress setting in. He wants so badly to believe that his father can help him, can do something to make him feel better, but the slow shake of the spirit's head takes away the last reserves of his strength. He sags back against the wall, too tired, too exhausted to fight the realization that is setting in, the knowledge that this time his father will not be able to help him.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"No, Dad, please don't say that, there has to be _something_ I can do…"

He doesn't need to see John shake his head again to know what the answer is going to be and he feels fresh tears well up in his eyes when his father's soft voice drifts across their worlds to shatter what little hope he had left. "Sam, there is nothing you can do; you have to let it go."

It should hurt, like he has been shot maybe, or like some creature is ripping his heart out of his chest while he is watching, he _wants_ to scream out in pain, lose himself in agony and basically just shut out the world and retreat to where he will never be found again.

Instead he just sits there numbly, watches his father for a long moment and lets the realization sink in.

It's over.

"Sam, I can't stay—" His body flickers again and John frowns, seems to concentrate and becomes solid again. "—too hard to hold on…"

He wants to ask him to stay, to plead with him not to leave him, just stay with him a moment longer so he won't have to face reality again, alone, on his own, but the words won't come, instead he nods slowly and meets the familiar eyes, tries so hard to smile at him.

His father had died before he had had the chance to tell him how much he meant to him, probably died thinking that he hated him and he realizes that this is his chance to tell him the truth, to make up for it. Maybe this time it isn't too little, too late.

The problem is that he just doesn't know _how_, can't really form a sentence or speak at all. He continues to look at him, tries to memorize his father's face, the way, even as a spirit, the dark eyes sparkle warmly when he smiles. A soft pressure inside his chest starts to uncurl, spreading warmth through his insides and making his eyes grow heavy.

_I love you, Dad, I love you so much._

John tilts his head to the side as if he is listening to something and his smile brightens, his hand moves from Sam's shoulder to his cheek and it isn't cold like he had expected it but warm, thawing his skin. He leans into the touch and closes his eyes, finally giving up the fight against the exhaustion that has been trying to drag him under.

"Love you, too, Son…"

The words drift through the darkness of the room, of his mind, following him as he slowly lets go of reality and retreats to where it won't find him, where he can rest, if only for a while.

"Take care, Sammy."

*** *** *** ***

_At the temple, there is a poem called "Loss", carved into the stone.  
__It has three words... but the poet has scratched them out.__  
You cannot read "Loss".  
Only _feel_ it._

**Sayuri, **Memoires of a Geisha

I feel the loss;  
I miss you.


End file.
